


I always go backwards when I'm backin' up

by queerpyrate



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Crowley's shenanigans in the Americas, M/M, a title thats only relevent in that it's a line from True Grit, bank robberies aren't what they used to be, bickering like an old married couple, canon disapproval of horses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 15:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20047987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerpyrate/pseuds/queerpyrate
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale run into eachother in an unlikely place [and period of time]: the American Wild West.





	I always go backwards when I'm backin' up

The room was enveloped in complete and utter silence. Well, except for the creaking floorboards and occasional throat-clearing. Oh, and the shouts of, “Stay down!” and “Money in the fucking bag!” that came from the other room. An ear pressed against the safe as nimble fingers rotated the dial this way and that. Occasionally he would pause as if trying to listen for the click of the tumblers. After all, when you could unlock anything with the literal snap of your fingers, it was crucial to make it appear as if you were putting forth _some_ effort. Even if it was just for show.

Just as the rest of his posse were beginning to grow restless, Crowley gave a triumphant snap. The tumblers slid into place as if by magic and a thunk reverberated throughout the room. “Got it!” The safe door swung open and Crowley tossed the nearest bag to the nearest nameless face. “What’d I tell you? We’re rich, boysss!”

“Hands up!” Another voice called out. “Up, I say! Right where I can see them, there’s a lad!”

Crowley’s expression faltered. Well, not so much _faltered_, as shifted more towards a smile. Which was unusual, given that a pistol was currently nudging him in the back.

“Hands up!” the voice repeated. “Or I’ll– I’ll shoot!” The gun poked at him a little harder now.

With another snap time stood still. Crowley turned slowly, one hand up in surrender, the other pulling down the bandana so that his face was revealed, smirk and all.

“Really, angel?”

Aziraphale stared back at him. No matter how many centuries had passed, no matter how many times they had run into each other like this, that bewildered expression would never grow old.

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing here?!” Aziraphale hissed.

“What do you mean, ‘What am I doing here’?!” Crowley shot back with mock annoyance. “Trying to rob a bank, clearly.” He gestured toward the gold bars and unmarked sacks since it apparently wasn’t obvious enough. “And what about you?” he interjected, just as Aziraphale was about to pipe up again. “A sheriff? _Really?_ Isn’t that a little… _passe_?*”

“Says the cowboy.”

“_Bank robber_." Crowley corrected indignantly. Then, “What the hell are you doing in the American west anyway?”

“If you must know,” Aziraphale huffed, “I’m actually on holiday.”

_“Oooh.”_ Crowley swayed on his feet. “Of _course_.” Reaching out, he lowered Aziraphale’s gun with the tip of his finger. He would hate to accidentally get discorporated, especially when they were in the middle of such an entertaining conversation. “Because it actually looks like you’re working to uphold the peace. Or did you just pop across the pond because you were feeling a bit peckish?”

The look Aziraphale gave him now was one he hadn’t seen since Paris. Not that it had been that long, of course, but… Well. After their spat in St. James’ Park, he honestly wasn't sure how long it would be before he saw it again. That satisfying combo of exasperation and fondness. He had missed it.

“And let me guess,” Aziraphale began, clearly flustered as he sought to holster the gun he apparently forgot he’d been holding. “You’re here after receiving another one of your commendations. What was it for this time?” he asked, pausing momentarily as if to find the most ridiculous reason possible. “Starting the Revolutionary War?”

Now this was the point where Crowley would normally speak up and deny any involvement. After all, most of the war and other atrocities that occurred throughout human history had little to do with demonic intervention, least of all his own. This time, however, he sucked on a tooth.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “My dear boy, you must be joking!”

“Oh, come on!” Crowley shrugged, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. “All things considered, speaking out against the Crown or what-have-you is hardly a damnable offense.”

While Crowley wasn’t exactly lying, this was only the jist of what had happened. In reality, his “speaking out against the Crown” was more like drunken babbling at some sods he had happened to overhear in a bar one night. Something along the lines of, “Oi mate, why'ou let'nem tell yeh what t'do or'here, whenthy al'dway over theh?” Perhaps this had something to do with his unresolved issues towards authority [i.e.: God]. Perhaps it stemmed from his disdain at being kept on a leash from afar [i.e.: Hell]. Or perhaps it even had to do with his conflicting desires for freedom vs his sense of abandonment [i.e.: Heaven]. Who’s to say? Either way, the end result was the same.

When Aziraphale stayed silent two seconds too long Crowley quirked a brow. “What?”

“What year is it, again?”

Crowley’s eyebrow hooked even higher as he counted on his fingers. “Uhhh.. 1867, I think. Why?”

“That’s nearly a hundred years!”

“Since…?”

“Since Paris! Did you not think this was worth mentioning over lunch?”

Crowley balked. _“What?”_ Aziraphale stared at him expectantly and he could only sputter. “Oh, _ooh_. I’m sorry,” he finally managed, the sarcasm so thick it made even him wince. “I 'spose I was a little distracted by your head near gettin’ lobbed off, and the rest of you discorporating right along with it! Besides, you were talking about your bookshop!" As he spoke his hand thrust this way and that of its own accord. "I just…” He was beginning to remember himself and he gestured haplessly. “Didn’t think it was worth mentioning. Honest.”

“No?”

“Well, maybe except for that bit about the tea.” Crowley grinned from ear to ear as he leaned back on his heels. “Quite proud of that one.” A forked tongue peaked out at him.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. It was marvelous.

“Right then, let’s go.”

_“Go?”_ Aziraphale asked, as if not quite recognizing the word.

Crowley offered a single nod. “Yup.” He peered over his shoulder at his men that were still frozen in place. Haphazardly he reached out and swiped a hat right off one of them. It was a nice hat. Clean at least. He plopped it right on Aziraphale’s head. “Come on, angel.” Two sacks of cash and he was out the door. Miraculously Aziraphale went right along with him. Perhaps he was too confused to argue. If so, it likely didn’t help when he lead them right to a horse.

Crowley tossed the sacks of cash into the carriage of some random passerby, the rest of the town also being at a standstill, of course, before swinging up into the saddle. Aziraphale gave him a look. “I know,” he sighed, “but the beasts aren’t so bad once you get used to them.”

Despite the look of doubt Aziraphale accepted the hand that was offered to him. “And how long does that take?” he asked as he got settled behind him. “Getting used to them, I mean?”

“Dunno. Hasn’t happened yet.”

After that they were nothing but dust in the wind. Time resumed, and the town returned to its bustling nature.


End file.
